


Pursuits

by kaela_b



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Era, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Pining, boy tags are rough idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9653552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaela_b/pseuds/kaela_b
Summary: Amelie catches her gaze and smiles, lifts her hand and curls her fingers in a graceful wave, and Angela raises her own hand and hides a blush behind a sip of champagne. Damn Amelie. Damn charming, graceful Amelie. She’s a regular goddess, sleek backless dress drawing attention to natural measurements that most of the women in the room have probably paid to imitate, capable of smiling down on even those taller than her. The quiet disdainful confidence simmering behind her hazel eyes begs the question who is on whose arm.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do something for femslash feb, but this might be the only thing I have time to put together... sob.
> 
> this is dedicated to the person I was talking to on twitter, I'm sorry I lost track of who you are..... I hope this gets back around to you!!

Champagne is not strong enough.

Angela disposes of her second empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray and wipes her thumb against the corner of her mouth as delicately as she can. Her medbay is like a second skin to her, a comfortable space where her word is the only authority. This, on the other hand, is a veritable jungle. Predators everywhere in several-thousand dollar suits.

But the UN expects Overwatch to be represented at diplomatic functions like upper-crust birthday celebrations, and Overwatch wants to remind the UN it isn’t just a gang of soldiers and mercenaries, so here she is, sans lab coat and monitors and anything stronger than champagne. She hadn’t come alone, but she hasn’t been able to decide if that makes it better or worse.

Her companions are in her line of sight, chatting with someone important enough that Angela should probably know who they are. Amelie and Gerard LaCroix are as charming as ever, in their element of elegance and class, socialites at heart if not in reality. They make good Overwatch diplomats, easily masking their lethal aim and training with wide smiles and custom-tailored clothes. Overwatch is lucky to have them both.

Amelie catches her gaze and smiles, lifts her hand and curls her fingers in a graceful wave, and Angela raises her own hand and hides a blush behind a sip of champagne. Damn Amelie. Damn charming, graceful Amelie. She’s a regular goddess, sleek backless dress drawing attention to natural measurements that most of the women in the room have probably paid to imitate, capable of smiling down on even those taller than her. The quiet disdainful confidence simmering behind her hazel eyes begs the question who is on whose arm.

Angela watches her lean into her husband’s ear and whisper something. He nods in response, and she pulls away from him and glides across the floor. Smooth as silk, Angela thinks, fluid and confident in everything she does. Just once, just once, she would like to see Amelie do something human like trip or fart.

She’s coming her way. Angela straightens up and smooths her dress over her stomach. She’s trying to fluff a little life back into her hair bun when Amelie reaches her. “Dr. Ziegler,” she purrs in greeting and kisses both her cheeks, Angela returning the greeting. “It’s good to see a familiar face.”

“Yes, it is.” Angela gestures toward Gerard. “Though the two of you certainly seem to fit in.”

Amelie laughs, a soft breathy noise that warms the pit of Angela’s stomach. “Do we? Us snipers prefer keeping our targets at a far longer distance.”

“Indeed. I prefer them on heavy sedatives.” She looks around. Despite how important it had been for them to come, no one is paying them any particular attention. “Do you think we could get out of here for a bit?” Amelie flicks her gaze around, smiles, and leads the way. They escape into a wide hallway with plush carpeting, dark walls, and most importantly, few other people.

Angela sighs and wraps her arms around herself, leaning her back against the wall. “Much nicer,” she hums.

“Yes.” Amelie rests her shoulder on the polished stone, hip cocked out. “I heard you made us a fascinating new recruit recently.”

Angela blinks. “Ah, yes. His name is Genji. Heavy modifications to keep internal organs working, both legs amputated and replaced, reinforced artificial skin grafted—” She stops when Amelie chuckles. “What?”

“I asked about the recruit, not his chart.” She smiles down at Angela. “You are very passionate about your work, Doctor. That is a rare gift.”

Angela’s eyebrows rise toward her hairline. “Thank you.” After a pause, she adds, “I think I could say the same of you.” Amelie keeps staring at her, dark and cool, a spider watching an insect wriggle in its web. “I mean, I can’t imagine how difficult it must be. But you do it so, uh, flawlessly—” Her voice peters out, unable to withstand the intensity of Amelie’s eyes. She tries to swallow but finds her throat has sealed itself closed.

Her heartbeat pounds bruises against her ribs from the inside out. “Dear Dr. Ziegler, you are too kind.” Amelie tilts her head and leans forward, Angela parts her lips – to protest or to receive her, she could not say herself – but Amelie bypasses her mouth entirely to whisper in her ear, “Be careful with this little crush, little butterfly. Mr. LaCroix is a terribly jealous man.”

The breath against Angela’s ear is warm, but it shoots tendrils of ice up through her veins all the same. Amelie brushes her fingers through a loose lock of Angela’s hair as she steps around her and returns to the main hall. The click of her heels bounces off the walls and echoes through Angela’s head. Her exposed back and the spider stretching along the length of her spine is the last Angela sees of her before she disappears from view.

For a moment, the wall at her back is the only thing keeping Angela upright. Warmth deep in her belly and ice crystals in her blood make her knees wobbly. Pulling air into her lungs, she pushes herself away and helplessly follows in Amelie’s path. Definitely time for a few more glasses of champagne.

\---

When Gerard LaCroix is found dead in his sleep, Angela hopes the rumors are false. She prays Amelie is not the one who did it, that she is dead and at rest. It would be so much simpler.

So much simpler than being on the field nearly ten years later. Static garbles Oxton’s voice in Angela’s ear, begging for medical attention for a fallen agent. But Angela is pinned in a narrow alley, their ambushers laying down cover fire to her right and a strike team sweeping ever closer on her left. She had heard the boom of a sniper rifle less than an hour earlier and had no idea where it had come from or if the sniper was still around. She doesn’t have much time to save herself, much less respond to her fellow agents’ distress.

Higher ground is her only option. She might be able to pinpoint Oxton’s location and plan a retreat until their backup arrives, she just needs to get to higher ground. Heart hammering its way up her throat, climbing inch by inch, she waits for a clatter of gunfire to echo through the city streets and mask the sharp report of her own pistol. The blaster tears apart the doorknob across from her with ease, and the doorway opens up on a maintenance entrance. She hisses a prayer of gratitude when she finds a staircase and bounds up the steps two at a time.

She climbs up seven flights of stairs and comes out on the roof, ducking low as she crosses. The crowded city streets work to her advantage; from this roof, she’s able to scrabble up onto another.

She shouldn’t be here at all. This was too dangerous, they’d known from the beginning that the city was inundated with Talon operatives. No place for a medic, even one equipped to handle fieldwork. But she’d been adamant that her assistance might be needed to extract their targets. Obstinate, she would have called anyone else. Arrogant.

Too late, Angela sees a flash of laser red.

She freezes, every muscle seizing up in cold recognition of a sniper sight. It blazes red as blood through the night, pinning her in place.

No shot. The laser sight blinks away, and from across the rooftops Angela watches the sniper rise from their position. The sniper stands like a phantom in the darkness, dimly outlined by the muted light of an overcast moon. Such soft, flowing curves; an instinctive recognition punctures Angela’s ribs.

The sniper steps up to the ledge and drops down without hesitation. Angela loses sight only for a moment before she hears a soft hiss and the claws of a grappling hook snag on the edge of the roof. Angela steps back, reaching for her pistol again, as the sniper deftly hoists themself up onto the roof and stands. A woman, judging by the bodysuit hugging her frame, by the way she flows like fluid toward Angela. Adrenaline screams hot and urgent through her blood, scattering her thoughts.

The sniper retracts the grapple line back into her bracer, her hands empty, so Angela cautiously lifts her hand away from her own weapon. Angela can’t see most of her face around the bulky visor she wears, but beneath it her lips curl ever so slightly. The feeling stuck in Angela’s ribs swells.

The sniper steps forward. Something about her skin is off, the way the weak moonlights falls on it is wrong, but Angela can’t tell why. She stiffens as the sniper’s arm reaches out over Angela’s shoulder, her hand gliding along the mechanical wing of her suit. She clicks her tongue. “Delicate little butterflies such as you should not be out in a place such as this,” she purrs.

Her voice. Angela gasps and reels back, away from the outstretched hand. “Amelie?” Alarms blare through her head, but she stands her ground, unafraid.

Amelie’s mouth twists in a grimace. She reaches up to press a button against her temple, the visor clicking and sliding away from her eyes to frame her phase. “No,” she snaps, “I am not Amelie.”

“What happened to you? How much do you remember?” Angela steps closer. She should take vitals, check reflexes. “We can help you, help is on the way, if you can just—“

“No!” Amelie slaps her hand away before she can press her fingers against Angela’s pulse. “I do not want or need your help!”

Angela scrambles. “But you recognize me, right? You know I can help.”

“I know who you are.” Her statement doesn’t answer Angela’s question. Amelie’s sneer melts into something more contemplative, regarding Angela with an expression hard as ice. “Do you think you are holy? That you can save the souls of the damned?” She closes the gap between them, and Angela has to tilt her chin a little to maintain eye contact. Her eyes, once warm amber, are pale and ghastly yellow.

“Amelie, please,” Angela whispers, raising a trembling hand to touch her cheek in the meager hopes a gentler approach will cut through. She nearly recoils in surprise; Amelie’s skin is cold. “Let me help you.”

A chuckle rolls low and deep from Amelie’s throat. “Oh, Doctor. So ambitious.” She grabs Angela’s chin, long manicured fingernails pressing lines into her skin. “I think I would like to see you try. Be careful you do not singe your wings and crash amongst us fallen.” Her face sharpens into a glower, and she reaches for her ear. “No, I am here. I copy.” She huffs, looking annoyed at the interruption.

A gasp sticks in Angela’s throat and nearly strangles her when Amelie suddenly presses her mouth against Angela’s. The coolness is disorienting, but her lips are soft. “I am afraid our time must be cut short.” She draws away, stepping back. One finger slides along the underside of Angela’s jaw and flicks off her chin as she pulls her hand away. “Do your best, then, little angel. Come and save this wretched soul.” She turns on her heel and saunters toward the edge of the roof. Her body suit opens at the back, and Angela finds herself staring at the massive spider. Amelie flicks a cold smile over her shoulder, shoots the grapple from her bracer, and disappears.

Angela’s lips are too cool and her belly is too warm. Amelie is alive. Amelie was here, and flew away again like a ghost. Angela shivers. The inky black silhouette of a spider is imprinted on the back of her eyes.

Eventually, she remembers herself enough to force out a shaky message to tell Oxton she’s on her way. As she goes, she keeps an eye out for any sign of the sniper crawling along the roofs, but catches nothing.

God help her. She has no choice but continue returning to the front lines; the spider has taunted the butterfly into a chase.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, come find me on [tumblr](http://geckosncats.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/geckosnack)!


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